Dozens of paces away, Daoist Washing Alley was ringed with Jiefan Guards and covert agents; the sounds of putting out fires, horses’ hooves, and shouting swelled into a chaotic roar as they drove the onlookers away.
In the narrow lane, Lady Lu sat motionless on the roof like a patient owl.
Beneath the gray tiles the main room was unnervingly quiet; only the flames licked on and smoke billowed in scattered plumes.
The people inside seemed to have guessed there were ambushers outside, and so refused to come out.
Two Xundao-stage officers knew very well that an engagement would mean life or death.
So they stared each other down in patience, scheming, and boldness — calculating every conceivable thing.
Chen Ji stood in the alley, eyes unblinking, fixed on the front door of the main room.
The woman who had earlier been driven back by Lady Lu slowly regained consciousness, then knelt again, bowing her forehead to Chen Ji in a flurry of silent kowtows.
Three silent people.
A silent house.
Silent gray tiles.
The scene felt uncanny, as if someone had taken the sound away from this alley.
At the next moment, twelve gray-clad, masked death-soldiers cut out from the end of the lane, each gripping a short dagger about two feet long, all with lethal intent in their eyes.